


Pretty woman

by hikarufly



Series: After Twelve Stories [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:46:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikarufly/pseuds/hikarufly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS for 9x02 The Witch's Familiar.<br/>what really happened when Missy was told to "run"?</p><p>My first attempt at "mature content"... hope you enjoy!<br/>English is not my first language, sorry for any grammatical horror ehm error.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cappyforever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cappyforever/gifts), [Naphta85](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naphta85/gifts).



_Pretty woman, walking down the street_

_Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet_

_Pretty woman_

_I don't believe you, you're not the truth_

_No one could look as good as you_

 

_**Mercy...** _

 

He started to breathe again. He hadn't realised he had stopped.

There she was, his Clara.

He could not believe she was dead, not really. At first, his hearts felt like sinking, when he saw the lasers, but then he remembered: his old trick, no doubt Missy had figured it out, and took Clara with her, just as she did to get to his farewell party. His pretty woman...

 

There she was, her eyes full of tears, some of which already running down her cheeks, taking a tiny trace of black make up with them. He could see the almost evanescent trace of dark colour leaving the corner of her eyes and fall down, and as many times before, he looked at her in awe and devotion. She was wired to the Dalek armor, sat almost comfortably inside the case, but also devastated and tired.

 

He stopped listening to Missy, he just warned her. Run, run before I can catch you and let you see how I will “thank” you for this, let you pay for any single distress you may have caused to my Clara.

 

He kept looking inside her eyes, still wet, still full of all that was in her heart and mind. Maybe she was crying not just for fear, but for the outburst of scare, tiresomeness, relief, love... who knew. He put his hands along side her face, lightly touching her temples with his fingers, near those cables that liked her brain to the Dalek's armor.

 

Sorry, he said, but she did not need apologies. She had her Doctor, he would cure her, no doubt about it.

 

«Clara, now listen to me. You need to focus, clear?» he asked, in his usual quick and straightforward manner. She nodded, trying to stop crying, but one last little tear fell down. He caught it with his thumb, and dried it, with a little, light touch. The Doctor felt her cheeks getting hotter under his fingertips, and saw them getting redder, but tried to concentrate. It was imperative, her brain could collapse, or worst, be contaminated.

 

«I need you to picture something, someone, to keep you to your human self. A memory, a picture, a word, anything that will not let the Dalek try and keep you rooted to its case, do you understand?» he said again. She nodded and swallowed, or best tried to. She needed to regain her voice, mostly because he needed to hear it, she could see it in his eyes, just after the little whisper she managed to do before.

 

«Will you help me?» she said, her lips slightly trembling. How could he refuse?

«I am here, I will help you. I will save you, Clara.» he replied, looking straight into her dark eyes, those eyes he could get lost into, if he only would.

«Okay...» she nodded again, a tearful, quivering smile on her face «something or someone to keep me human, a memory. What memory?»

 

He closed his eyes and pressed gently on her temples. Clara closed her eyes too, and felt it. He was getting inside her mind. It was like they were in a great elegant art-deco house. Something very organized, with everything in ordered, simple but elegant lines.

«Is this my mind?» she asked. Her voice echoed in the hall.

«In a way»

The Doctor was there, in his white shirt, black waistcoat, skinny trousers, Dr Martens at his feet and Crombie's black coat with red lining. Like something powerful and wonderful hidden behind a dark and anonymous mask.

«When did you change?» asked she.

«I did not. But you like to be in control, so your mind projects me in the most... let's say composed manner» says he. What he couldn't know for the moment, and especially what she couldn't reveal, was that probably there was something about those clothes that captured her special attention.

«So what do we do now?»

«First, we look for the place where we can disconnect you from the Dalek case, but it will try and stop us on the way, so focus. Follow me.»

Clara, or best her own projection in her mind, took his hand, and he held it tight. She smiled.

«Let's go then.»

 

They entered the house. It was nice and cozy but there was a strange presence, like a cold wind passing through the windows. The curtains were dancing slowly.

«You said I needed to focus on something or someone. Can I focus on you?»

The Doctor was looking around and did not answer, but was holding her hand very firmly.

They continued walking and a sound was coming out of the next room, as from an old gramophone.

 

_Pretty woman, won't you pardon me_

_Pretty woman, I couldn't help but see_

_Pretty woman_

_That you look lovely as can be_

_Are you lonely just like me?_

 

He looked at her now. There was a large tank parked inside a splendid Georgian ball room. The tank had a small amplifier and a guitar connected to it, as well as to a 1950s' radio. She blushed.

«So I must have made some impression» said he with a little cunning smile.

She was almost letting his hand go, but he held it again, tightly. The tank was starting to move.

**Ex...**

The sound was astounding, like a giant talking in his sleep, or awakening.

**Ter...**

The Doctor made a step backwards, and so did Clara. The tank lightened up: it had two lamps on the sides, just like...

**Mi...**

«The Dalek!» said he, starting to move «Run, Clara, run!»

**Naaaaaaaaate!**

 

They left the room running as their life depended on it. The tank destroyed the walls, like a dragon crushing the doors trying to escape. They found a little secret passage and they took it.

«Clara, look at me, this isn't real, this is your head. Picture it: there is a moment in your head, a memory, that makes you feel safe. Take us there.» he was cupping her face, again. She put her hand on his and nodded.

«I will guide you, now.»

 

_Pretty woman, stop a while_

_Pretty woman, talk a while_

_Pretty woman, give your smile to me_

_Pretty woman, yeah yeah yeah_

_Pretty woman, look my way_

_Pretty woman, say you'll stay with me_

_'Cause I need you, I'll treat you right_

_Come with me baby, be mine tonight_

 

They ran through corridors, and hallways. All without a fleck of dust, all perfect. Control freak, no less than that. There was an air of menace everywhere though, like every square metre could hide a new thrill or adventure.

They opened a door and there it was: the sleeping car on the Orient Express – the one in space of course. They both now looked changed. She was wearing again that beautiful dress, like a little doll reproduction of Daisy Buchanan, while he boasted again a sharp but elegant look, and with that black cravat. The Doctor was disoriented.

«Here?» he asked.

«Yes... apparently» replied her «I just thought about it and it seems that my mind made this up.»

«The day we almost parted...» murmured him, lowering his gaze. She got closer so he lifted it up again. No rudeness, especially in her own mind.

«But we didn't. I'm here, I am still here, and I always will be.» replied her, looking directly at his eyes.

«Always is a very long time, Clara.» said the Doctor, realising more than her what that word meant.

 

She stood silent for a moment.

«There is no always, Clara.»

It was not the Doctor, this time. Her heart sank in her chest. She turned.

«...Danny?»

There he was, Danny Pink, dressed in the purest and most perfect military fashion, like he was about to leave for the French front in 1914.

The Doctor chuckled for a moment, but the next was pure Time-lord rage.

«This is very cheap, even for a Dalek.»

She turned to him: very cheap indeed, taking that shape in her mind. But mind and heart are sometimes very difficult to put together.

«There is now, and now is always.» said Danny, or what it looked like him. She felt her knees tremble. The Doctor strengthened his grip on her arm now.

«He is not real, Clara. He's here to tempt you to close your mind and forget about everything else. He's even armed!» he realised, and the soldier took out the gun, pointing it to the Doctor.

«Let her go.» said Danny. How beautiful he was, thought Clara, and how sad to see that awful weapon in his hands.

 

_Pretty woman, don't walk on by_

_Pretty woman, don't make me cry_

_Pretty woman, don't walk away, hey...okay_

_If that's the way it must be, okay_

 

_I guess I'll go on home, it's late_

_There'll be tomorrow night, but..._

 

The Doctor was about to move, to speak, to do something, but...

 

_wait_

 

She moved instead.

 

_What do I see_

 

_Is she walking back to me_

 

She stood on her tiptoes, put her arms around his neck and then...

 

_Yeah, she's walking back to me_

 

She kissed him.

 

_Ooh, ooh, Pretty woman_

 

She kissed him, and after a moment of surprise, he kissed her back. He embraced her, took her little body in his arms, and held her tight. It wasn't real, that was the worst part, but in fact... it was, in her head, in that sleeping car, with Danny transforming into a Dalek, and than fading, it was real.

 

They were kissing and it felt so real that their real hearts, all three, were running fast. She could feel his beating under her hand, now on his chest, and so was he, touching her skin on her back. She searched his skin too, between the buttons on his shirt, opening a couple without even realising it, then ran her fingers through his hair, his curls thicker than she expected but softer too. He was holding her tight, both hands on her back but one between her shoulder blades, and the other down to her waist. He had to bend to avoid any distance from her, for she was smaller than him. Their lips caressed each other, tasted each other, their tongues were dancing together. She could feel his body pressed against hers, she let him sustain her, but held on to him with all her strength, as to disappear inside that embrace.

 

They both stopped worrying about everything else and suddenly all was finished. She was sitting in the Dalek case, the two cables away from her temples, and the Doctor had fallen back to the floor. They looked at each other, blushing for a moment. Then they both got up, without loosing each others' gaze and...

 

A bolt of lightning. A laser beam. Thick gurgling mud-like remains were flooding everywhere. They ran away, they surpassed the Daleks that were agonizing and asking questions. They escaped and were back in the TARDIS. He made his ship depart, and they landed out of the city and went out. They looked at self-destruct, at civil war. They didn't know how to speak about what happened, or didn't happen or they imagined happened.

 

Then he remembered: mercy. He left her for a moment, and then was back. She looked around and she felt like that one time, at university, when a guy, in a pub, seemed so keen on her and then, declaring that he needed to go to the loo, never came back. She almost laughed, and then he was there again. The TARDIS noise was unmistakable. He opened the door and slightly came out, gesturing her to come in. She looked again at Skaro, for a moment, asking herself where hatred can lead, and reached the familiar, splendid control room.

 

He was sat on his big confy armchair, the electric guitar on his lap. He was trying it, playing a reef or two, interrupting once in a while. Bowie, Pearl Jam, Foo Fighters, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Rossini... all sorts.

«You're not going to tell me about that confession... but we are going to talk about what happened in my head.» she declared, slowly walking up the stairs and reaching the book cases on the mezzanine. He looked at her and hold the guitar as a shield.

«The party, the guitar, everything... were you really going to go without saying goodbye?» she asked, almost offended. He lowered his gaze.

«You said she is your closest friend. Who am I, then?» continued she, getting closer and closer.

«We have know each other for centuries. She is one of my kind...» explained him, but she shook her head.

«Do you know what she said to me? She told me that I am your little puppy. That you and her are the real deal, and I am just a hobby.»

She sounded cross, or best, disappointed. He looked at her.

«You are not my hobby. But maybe I am yours.»

Her lips parted, it was her turn to lower her gaze. Yes, he was the funny part of her life but... he was no pastime.

«Was it true? What you said in the arena?» asked she. He said nothing and caressed the strings of his guitar.

«That you always see me? That there is no crowd, no one else, when I am with you?»

She did not need to hear it to know, that was what he thought. For him, it was as clear as day, he wanted just to avoid ruining her life, ad he ruined it for others before her. A little human being and a time lord? It could never be, it could never last, but it kept on happening.

Human beings are never little, never unimportant.

She knew perfectly his qualms, his doubts. She needed to take the situation in her hands. They had to be the control freak and the man who could not be controlled.

She sat on his lap, slowly as she could manage, and took the guitar from his hand. She put it very respectively down on one side, on the floor. He looked at her like he didn't know what she was about to do, not consciously. She caressed his cheeks with both her hands, too small to cup his face. His expression melted from doubt into tenderness, and then devotion. She smiled, and closed her eyes.

«Maybe I am just a human being, but we have eternity, Doctor. Eternity is in the moment: it was not Danny talking, I think. It was me. Let me have this “always” with you.» said she, and how could he refuse?

He opened her leather jacket's zip, helping her to get rid of it. It was easier, and sexier she thought, with the Gatsby dress and the white shirt, but never mind.

She got closer to him and started kissing him again. Maybe it was the first time, for real, but it was not important. He got one arm around her waist and another on her thigh, cursing in his head the thin layer of fabric that forbid him to caress her skin. She, on the other hand, had already taken contact with his skin, letting her hands slip under his double T-shirt and feeling the shivers down his spine she was provoking. When his long, elegant fingers got to the inner side of her thigh she sighed, and blushed. Every girl has a thing for guitarists.

Was it the same, for time lords? Was she good enough for a superior species or something? How long had it been for him? She stopped kissing him for a moment, so he started. He had spent centuries without her, in various shapes and with different faces, and now did not want to let go. It was not a race, it was not competition. They did not need to keep control, they just had to loose it, and loose it all.

He pulled her jumper and then her dress off her gently and elegantly, and tried to do the same with her leggings, after she took his T-shirts off and opened and abandoned his hoodie. They both smiled nervously when it seemed he could not really manage to free her of that garment. It didn't take long after that to get in their underwear.

The TARDIS lowered the lights, as to leave them to their privacy, and she felt exposed, more than ever. He took control, then. He cupped her face with his hands, caught her gaze: everything was going to be fine, hopefully even better than fine. Some sort of telepathic string was still there, so they both smiled. He helped her to sit on him, facing him, getting rid of the little pieces of cloth still separating them. She got closer, her heart pounding so fast she could feel her own blood pumping everywhere. He kissed her again on the lips, gently, embracing her, to move then to her cheeks, her neck, in a slow exploration of her skin. His hands lowered to her back, making her sigh and bit her lip with anticipation. Her arms where around his shoulder, her legs folded behind his back and her fingers, again or for the first time, lost in his curls.

Their hearts started to run at the same speed. He let one of his hands again up her thigh, so near to his own that there was very little space left. She was ready, she couldn't wait another second maybe, but anticipation and suspense were so intoxicating and exciting she hoped it would last longer than ever. He was ready too, and yet it was not about him for once, not in that moment. Not with his Clara.

He put his forehead against hers. He didn't like hugs only because they hid faces, so he was keen on seeing hers, especially in that moment. Their pupils dilated, gaze into gaze, he let his fingers inside her, caressing and exploring and teasing her, and she moaned distinctively, trying not to scream. There was no way she could wait more than that, and so was he, she could feel it. She than let one of her hands on his member and guided it where his hands already were. She climbed him, forcing his face between her breasts, and pulling his head back again to kiss him. One movement, two and three and they were finally intertwined, locked. It was his turn to moan, and then they both filled the room with whispers, words, cries until they both reached the higher level, the moment of eternity that lovers can discover.

Their hearts and body were one, and so their souls.

Just the Doctor and Clara, in the TARDIS.

 


End file.
